Having
written about the devas, I shall now write about the
human visitors who came to see Ãcariya Mun. Being
human, I am also included in this matter; but I
still wish to apologize to the reader if there is
anything unappealing or inappropriate in what
follows. In some ways I have an incurably roguish
character, as you will no doubt notice. However, I
feel it necessary to record truthfully what Ãcariya
Mun told his disciples privately. I ask for your
forgiveness, but I include this so that you may
compare humans and devas and learn something from
it.

Ãcariya Mun said there was a great difference
between humans and devas in the way they
communicated with him and listened to his discourses
on Dhamma. Devas of every realm, from the highest to
the lowest, are able to comprehend the meaning in a
discussion of Dhamma much more easily than their
human counterparts. And when the discussion is over,
their exclamations of approval – “sãdhu, sãdhu,
sãdhu” – echo throughout the spiritual universe.
Devas of every realm have enormous respect for
monks; not one of them shows any sign of
impropriety. When coming to listen to a monk
discourse on Dhamma, their comportment is always
calm, orderly, and exquisitely graceful. Human
beings, on the other hand, never really understand
the meaning of a Dhamma discourse – even after
repeated explanations. Not only do they fail to
grasp the meaning, but some are even critical of the
speaker, thinking: What is he talking about? I can’t
understand a thing. He’s not as good as that other
monk. Some who themselves have previously ordained
as monks cannot keep their gross kilesas from
surfacing, boasting: When I was ordained I could
give a much better talk than this. I made those
listening laugh a lot so they didn’t get tired and
sleepy. I had a special rapport with the audience
which kept them howling with laughter. Still others
think: It’s rumored that this monk knows the
thoughts of others. So whatever we think, he knows
immediately. Why, then, doesn’t he know what I’m
thinking right now? If he knows, he should give some
sign – at least indirectly, by saying that this or
that person shouldn’t think in such and such a way
because it’s wrong. Then we would know if he
deserves his reputation. Some people come ready to
find fault so they can show off their own
cleverness. These types are not interested in Dhamma
at all. Expounding Dhamma in their presence is like
pouring water on a dog’s back – they immediately
shake it all off, leaving not a drop behind.

Ãcariya Mun
would often laugh when talking about this type of
person, probably because he was amused by his
occasional encounters with such ‘clever’ people. He
said that some people who came to see him were so
opinionated they could barely walk, the burden of
their conceit being much heavier than that which an
ordinary mortal could carry. Their conceit was so
enormous that he was more inclined to feel
trepidation than pity for them, which made him
disinclined to talk to them about Dhamma. Still,
there were certain social situations where this was
unavoidable, so he struggled to say something. But
as he was about to speak, the Dhamma seemed to
vanish and he could think of nothing to say. It was
as if Dhamma could not compete with such overbearing
conceit – and so, it fled. All that remained was his
body, sitting like a lifeless doll, being stuck with
pins, and ignored by everyone as though he had no
feelings. At such times, no Dhamma arose for
discourse, and he simply sat like a tree stump. In
cases like that, where would the Dhamma come from?

Ãcariya Mun
used to laugh as he described those situations to
his disciples, but there were some in his audience
who actually trembled. Since they weren’t feverish
and the weather wasn’t cold, we can only assume that
they were shuddering from feelings of trepidation.
Ãcariya Mun said that he would not teach very
conceited individuals unless absolutely necessary
because his discourse could actually turn into
something toxic for the heart of someone who
listened without any feeling of respect. The Dhamma
that Ãcariya Mun possessed was truly of the highest
order and of enormous value to those who established
their hearts in the principle of goodwill, not
considering themselves superior to Dhamma in any
way. This is a very important point to keep in mind.
Every effect has its cause. When many people sit
together listening to a Dhamma talk, there will be
some who feel so uncomfortably hot they almost melt
and there will be others who are so cool they feel
as if they are floating in the air. The difference,
the cause, is right there in the heart. Everything
else is inconsequential. There was simply no way he
could help lighten the burden of someone whose heart
refused to accept Dhamma. One might think that if
teaching them doesn’t actually do any good, it also
would not do any harm. But that’s not really the
case, for such people will always persist in doing
things which have harmful repercussions – regardless
of what anyone says. So it’s not easy to teach human
beings. Even with a small group of people,
invariably there were just enough noxious characters
among them to be a nuisance. But rather than feel
annoyed like most people, Ãcariya Mun would simply
drop the matter and leave them to their fate. When
no way could be found to help reform such people,
Ãcariya Mun regarded it simply as the nature of
their kamma.

There were
those who came to him with the virtuous intention of
searching for Dhamma, trusting in the good
consequences of their actions – and these he greatly
sympathized with – though they were far and few
between. However, those who were not looking for
anything useful and had no restraint were legion, so
Ãcariya Mun preferred to live in the forests and
mountains where the environment was pleasant and his
heart was at ease. In those places he could practice
to the limit without being concerned with external
disturbances. Wherever he cast his glance, whatever
he thought about, Dhamma was involved, bringing a
clear sense of relief. Watching the forest animals,
such as monkeys, languars, and gibbons, swinging and
playing through the trees and listening to them call
to one another across the forest gave rise to a
pleasant inner peacefulness. He need not be
concerned with their attitude toward him as they ran
about in search of food. In this deep solitude, he
felt refreshed and cheerful in every aspect of his
life. Had he died then, he would have been perfectly
comfortable and contented. This is dying the truly
natural way: having come alone, he would depart
alone. Invariably all the Arahants pass into Nibbãna
in this way, as their hearts do not retain any
confusion or agitation. They have only the one body,
the one citta, and a single focus of attention. They
don’t rush out looking for dukkha and they don’t
accumulate emotional attachments to weigh them down.
They live as Noble Ones and they depart as Noble
Ones. They never get entangled with things that
cause anxiety and sorrow in the present. Being
spotlessly pure, they maintain a detachment from all
emotional objects. Which stands in sharp contrast to
the way people act in the world: the heavier their
heart’s burden, the more they add and increase their
load. As for Noble Ones, the lighter their load, the
more they relinquish, until there’s nothing left to
unload. They then dwell in that emptiness, even
though the heart that knows that emptiness remains –
there is simply no more loading and unloading to be
done. This is known as attaining the status of
someone who is ‘out of work’, meaning that the heart
has no more work left to do in the sãsana. Being
‘out of work’ in this way is actually the highest
form of happiness. This is quite different from
worldly affairs, where unemployment for someone with
no means of making a living signifies increased
misery.

Ãcariya Mun
related many differences between devas and humans,
but I’ve recorded here only those which I remember
and those which I think would benefit the discerning
reader. Perhaps these asides, such as the deva
episodes, should all be presented together in one
section according to the subject matter. But Ãcariya
Mun’s encounters with such phenomena stretched over
a long period of time and I feel it necessary to
follow his life story as sequentially as possible.
There will be more accounts about devas later; but I
dare not combine the different episodes because the
object is to have the parallel threads of the story
converge at the same point. I ask forgiveness if the
reader suffers any inconvenience.

What Ãcariya
Mun said about devas and humans refers to these
groups as they existed many years before, since
Ãcariya Mun, whose reflections are recorded here,
died over 20 years ago. The devas and humans of that
age have most probably changed following the
universal law of impermanence. There remains only
the ‘modern’ generation who have probably received
some mental training and improved their conduct
accordingly. As for the contentious people whom
Ãcariya Mun encountered in his life, probably such
people no longer exist to clutter up the nation and
the religion. Since then, there has been so much
improvement in the education system; and
well-educated people aren’t likely to harbor such
vulgar ambitions. This affords people today some
relief.

AFTER LIVING
AND TEACHING the monks and the local population in
the Udon Thani and Nong Khai areas for a
considerable time, Ãcariya Mun moved eastward to the
province of Sakon Nakhon. He traveled through the
small villages in the forests and mountains of the
Warichabhum, Phang Khon, Sawang Dan Din, Wanon Niwat,
and Akat Amnuay districts. He then wandered to
Nakhon Phanom through the district of Sri Songkhram,
passing through the villages of Ban Sam Phong, Ban
Non Daeng, Ban Dong Noi, and Ban Kham Nokkok. All
these places were deep in the wilderness and
infested with malaria, which, when caught, was very
difficult to cure: a person could be infected the
better part of a year and still not fully recover.
Assuming one did not die, living through it was
still a torment. As I’ve already mentioned, malaria
was called ‘the fever the in-laws despise’, because
those who suffered chronically from this illness
were still able to walk around and eat, but unable
to do any work. Some became permanent invalids. The
villagers in that area, as well as the monks and
novices who lived in the same forests, were
frequently victims of malaria. Some even died from
it. For three years Ãcariya Mun spent successive
rains retreats in the area around Ban Sam Phong
village. During that time quite a few monks died of
the illness. Generally, those monks were from
cultivated areas where there was little malaria –
such as the provinces of Ubon, Roy Et, and Sarakham
– so they were not used to the forests and
mountains. They could not live easily in those
forests with Ãcariya Mun because they couldn’t
tolerate the malaria. They had to leave during the
rainy season, spending their retreat near villages
that were surrounded by fields.

Ãcariya Mun
recounted that when he gave evening Dhamma talks to
the monks and novices near the village of Sam Phong,
a nãga from the Songkhran River came to listen
almost every time. If he failed to arrive at the
hour when the discourse took place, he would come
later when Ãcariya Mun sat in samãdhi. The devas
from the upper and lower realms came only
periodically, and not as often as they did when he
stayed in the provinces of Udon Thani or Nong Khai.
They were always particular about coming on the
three holiest observance days of the rains retreat–
the first, the middle and the last day. No matter
where Ãcariya Mun lived, whether in towns or cities,
the devas always came from one realm or another to
hear his Dhamma. This was true in the city of Chiang
Mai while he was staying at Wat Chedi Luang
monastery.